Questionable Nights, Questionable Hours
by Of Miracles And Men
Summary: Vic Sage, otherwise known as The Question, finds himself on an "average" night of patrol in Hub City, while maintaining his usual paranoid conspiracy theorist mantra.


**(A/N): (1/26/16) New and improved baby, 'cause I liked the way it was but I love the way it is now. Enjoy! **

**-Additional note: Vic's birth name is Charles. Carry on! **

* * *

It was three in the morning.

It was three in the morning and it was raining.

It was three in the morning and it was raining, and Vic Sage found himself outside in Hub City. He was walking home as the rain formed valleys and crevices of water in the rise and falls of his fedora. It streamlined the creases of his coat and streaked down, slicking down his coat and freezing. The rainwater that used him as a causeway fell to Earth, where it splattered on pavement, exploding in a disruption of liquid. His shoes rippled puddles, causing them to shimmer away the reflections of dirty, dusty neon signs that flickered, and cloudy, dark skies that blotted out the moon and stars.

Vic Sage thought about the time as he walked. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, cold leather from his gloves causing discomfort against the thin pocket lining, but he chose to ignore this over other things.

_Three in the morning,_ he thought as water began to drizzle down from the point of his well-worn and well-used fedora where it tapered in the front, _an hour of superstition. Common belief that demons and wraiths would walk the street. An hour when they would prey upon the innocent and the weak. _

As he continued to walk, it was with the dim realization that he was the only one out on the street, and, it would appear, the whole city. He made a mental note of it.

_Melodramatic, _he added, _but it might get a point across to punks looking for something easy to prey on. I have patrol. Priorities first. _

He passed a bank that overlooked the center of the street, a dismal display of architecture in the night hour. The unrelenting rain soaked her sides and streaked down her columns, scouring faded white walls, and soaking the windows with interweaving strands of water. Vic stole a glance at the electronic LED clock flanked by its logo, informing him it was a very early three oh four. He had to wait a second before it informed him of the temperature; it was dim and flickering like every other broken, half-rate sign in town.

Four blocks to go until he was home, out of the rain; it was rather unhealthy to assume another course of action—after all, it should be common knowledge about the pig glands.

Vic continued, gaze turning from the clock to the dark ambiguity of the street he traveled down. The water slowly began to bleed through his fedora, and the back of his scalp began to feel the slightest bit damp. A steady trickle that instigated a sensation similar to blood began to slither down to the base of his neck. The discomfort only increased as his waterlogged, mud-caked shoes paced down the road, guiding him home.

And that was when the keen of the bank alarm tore through the night, an unyielding shriek, and he turned automatically with a grumble of apprehension that mingled with faintest irritation.

So much for disinfecting as quickly as possible from the pig glands.

* * *

The rain was getting worse.

It was three twenty, and there had been eight of them. They were predictably sluggish standings and even slower moving, with great, ape-like faces that had caved in from the gentlest punch.

Their guns had been (while they were still in one piece), horribly outdated, and every single one of them wore dirty, wet, squeaking sneakers with aglets (was there nothing that the clueless, consuming public would not stoop to in a mad, sweaty dash to reach the top?) that shone in the luminescent light of the bank window. Also, they had had generally horrendous body odor exponentially increased by the rain-generated smell of wet dog.

There had been a thrill that had raced through his system, though composed and as coiled as a livid wire, when he had seen their expressions fall slack in mute fear when he revealed himself. He had enjoyed their reaction to seeing the faceless man, an ambivalent stranger that had emerged from the shadows to join their repartee. It had been an even greater joy to dispatch the situation quickly, though unfortunately, not quickly enough for him.

Vic was irritable, but his mood was salvageable, so he tipped his head as he walked. In doing this, the water spilled out from the bill in his fedora; he watched it fall in fat, transparent droplets that splashed on the absorbent ground, disappearing as quickly as they had come.

Reluctantly, he approached a blind spot where the video cameras could not see him or any sign that he was ever there. After a quiet second in which he admired the hushed whisper of rainfall, he produced his hands from his pockets, gloved and coated with a good amount of blood, to the rain, to clean them (though he would most certainly sterilize them as soon as he got home, goodness knew what the rain and the contamination of pig glands would do to it).

He waited, patiently, watching as the bright, poignant red began to run off and drizzle away with the water, down to earth. It was vague disinterest he noted how the red droplets joined their transparent brethren and sunk into the ground, not as absorbent as the water was and staining the pavement.

No matter. At least six of those eight men were now in possession of fractured jaws, or no longer in possession of their molars. Double for the one who had attempted to sneak up on him from behind; he would be eating with a straw for the considerable, foreseeable future.

When all the blood had run off and away, down onto the pavement or whisked away by rain, he continued his walk home, a stride a little more briskly paced and propelled by a rush of unfading adrenaline.

Two and half blocks to go. He would take the shortcut to get home. After all, most homeless people that resided there were docile psychics, caused to be so by being in contact with the spirit world for so long. In the shadows of the alleyways, he found a peace from the rain that danced over the awning in the alley, a juxtaposed rhythm that grated and calmed at the same time.

_And for the weak of mind, increases the uncontrollable urge to urinate._

Trash crumpled and folded underneath his feet as he descended down the street. The quiet cacophony mingled with the snores of the homeless as he maneuvered down the contained twilight, palming the wall plastered in old graffiti.

The snoring of a small figure shuddered as she rolled over in the sleeping bag she had, next to a larger figure (presumably a guardian). Vic turned his head to look, cautious, but relaxed and went on his way, passing the glowing embers of a trashcan where a dying fire sat, lying in wait.

_Fire hazard, possibility of third-degree burns and, with cotton blankets and sleeping bags like these, definite asphyxiation from smoke and imminent death. _

_Also, a surefire way to let __**them**__ know we are ripe for the picking. _

He rounded the corner as the large, not smallish figure by the trashcan sat up with a yawn and bumped into it with the gentle force of a bull and loud thud of hollow metal.

Vic only had to smell the smoke, a half street down, and hear the cry of terror and pain, to turn on his heel (once more postponing the conclusion of his night), and see the great plume of flame. Scarlet, orange and a bright, blinding yellow coalesced on the man's sleeping bag, as he writhed and sobbed and screamed and shouted, pleading for help when none would come.

The smallish figure of the girl beside him, roused from sleep, stood and howled with tears due to the shattered illusion of security even in the bleakest of all situations. Vic did not hesitate as he tore off his coat, drenched by the rain, and pushed past the girl with all the gentle urgency in the world coupled with no time to spare.

First, he dove for the fire. It was now beginning to pick up in volume, consuming air and smoke; he slapped his coat upon it, madly, quickly, efficiently, until there was nothing more left than damp embers of what once was. Second, for the man, who was howling in pain, for his leg had been caught in the fire. Vic could smell the acrid, burning flesh, and appreciated his composure and lack of a face in this situation.

He didn't have to be a doctor to know this man needed immediate medical attention; immediate medical knowledge he did not possess. And although he knew hospitals were all inked to demon cults, there was nothing he could do but get this man to one as soon as possible.

After making sure the man was still breathing, Vic turned to the girl. She had not seen his face (or lack of) in the firelight, for he had turned away, and saw only shadow and a savior.

He asked, "Is he your father?"

"My uncle." She replied simply, and he nodded, thinking.

"Is he going to be all right?" she whimpered, and the tears that had dripped away in shock at his sudden appearance threatened to resurface.

"Does he wear shoes with aglets?" Vic asked.

She blinked, bright eyes wide in the shadow of the alley. "No."

"Then he'll be fine." Vic reassured her, and then turned back to her uncle, who was limp and muttering in shock from a night rather horribly spent. After another moment of surveying the damage, he stooped down to pick him up.

He had a plan.

* * *

J'onn J'onzz' face, was, for the most part, impassive, as he regarded Vic's defiant figure while the vigilante barricaded the entrance to the JLU satellite hospital wing with his own body. Although the effort was mostly figurative, for the Martian could have merely assumed transparency and filtered right through him, Vic could not go without credit for his empathic integrity.

From the plexiglass window beside the open doorframe, the uncle and his niece were visible. His wound was being tended to by a few quiet doctors while the girl stood by, wordless but far from concerned.

J'onn could no more than open his mouth before Vic cut off whatever syllable would have escaped him, with quiet, ardent gruffness befitting him. The sting of subtle sarcasm that would have been prominent in his voice escaped him for the moment. J'onn assumed it was so that he could plead his case without being rebuffed for lack of social graces.

"No one should be denied medical attention. Hospitals refused." He paused; rainwater from Hub City dripped down his face.

_"__I_ didn't. Came here instead." He explained. It was tacit and his shoulders broadened as he said it, as if straightening his posture would make J'onn turn away and resume his business.

The two of them assumed silence, and for a moment there was nothing to break it but the quiet hum of machinery from the room Vic continued to barricade. He added before J'onn could take another chance to speak, "If we're not heroes for civilians, what are we?"

"Charles." J'onn tactfully, formally interrupted before his "conversational" companion began a rant that teetered precariously on the line of overbearing morality and ethics, and wholeheartedly crossed it. "I have no intention of turning these two out back to the street, especially not in the condition both are in. And especially not after the determination you have demonstrated in keeping them here."

He took the moment, in Vic's lowered defenses, to take a quick mindsweep, and found only resolve strengthened by a deep, primal empathy he didn't expect of the man. Vic took another second to recover, having half-expected to engage in fisticuffs with the Martian if the situation went downhill, and then found his voice.

_"__Good." _There was no room to misconstrue the genuine quality to his voice.

J'onn merely arched a brow in return.

* * *

After J'onn left, he came into the room and sat down in the plastic (most likely radioactive) chair besides the one that the girl sat in. She was tan-skinned, with black hair and gray, misty eyes that looked up to him as he approached but did no more. He noted that she did not react in an untoward fashion towards his lack of face and general appearance. Her eyes were that of an innocent, but tempered by the hardships of life. He knew Helena would like her immensely.

She turned back to watch the sleeping form of her uncle, who had fallen asleep from the medication administered minutes before, and dared a shy glance up to him.

"Will he be all right?" she asked; her voice was a solid whisper against the silence.

"Yes." He said, and it was reassurance enough for her; her small shoulders that were hunched and painfully anxious, relaxed at once. The silence became amiable, if but slightly so, and the tension had dissipated.

"What's your name?" she asked, looking up to him as he looked down to her. He watched her openly admire the facelessness he possessed, and was not dissuaded by it.

"Charles."

"Charles?" he wasn't sure if she had been expecting a name with more grandeur or less gravitas to it, so he opted to nod and return the favor.

"Yours?"

"Kay." She replied. He made a noise of acknowledgement. "Good name. Suits you."

"Thanks." She replied tiredly; she was just a slip of a child but had already seen a world. He figured the best thing to do was let them sit there and enjoy the minutes of peace while one still could. But eventually, restless from having reclined so long on the radioactivity he dared to call a chair, his gaze dragged to the clock.

Four-thirty, Hub City time. He needed to get back. He rose with subtle grace and looked down at her.

"Have to go home. Been away too long. Take care of your uncle."

"Thank you." She said, with the gentle, simple desire of a child who wishes to see their unexpected friend again, but knows they never will. She offered him a weak, tired smile that betrayed the joy in life she had for everything, the little innocent thing.

Vic tipped his fedora and when she blinked, had disappeared out the swinging hospital wing door, the only trace that he had been there at all a few stray puddles and muddy, trackless footprints.

* * *

It was six in the morning, and there was light descending above the horizon of the city line as Vic returned home. He was drenched to the bone, in a muddy, charred jacket. His gloves were once more bloody, and his fedora had a prominent dent in it that he had not bothered to correct.

Helena wrinkled her nose as he strode into the bedroom, not quite sure how Vic could leave for a few hours and come back smelling like a landfill. She observed, groggy and yawning, as he took off his coat and discarded it on the table, and then removed his hat, revealing matted, unkempt black hair that he ran his hands through and made no attempt to control.

"Just _what_ do you do when you're gone?" she groaned, the red sheets of the bed spilling over her reclining figure as she propped herself up on an elbow. She surveyed his bedraggled appearance as he walked to the bedside, undoing his tie and dropping it to the floor with a small _pap_ on the rug.

"There was a little girl. And a hospital. Fire. Bank and aglets. Later, drug dealing. Had to settle loose ends." Vic said.

Helena stared at him for a good, long second.

"Why do I even try?"

"Because you're curious. And curiosity is a dangerous thing." Vic explained, unbuttoning the top few buttons to his shirt, allowing his body to breathe after the patrol.

"Is that a challenge?" she smirked, and Vic noted how seductive she looked in that moment, how she was poised on the bed, not leaving to the imagination. He watched how she smiled at him, that look in her eyes betraying the carnal desires that commanded her so, and told him just exactly _what_ she wanted him to do to her.

Slowly, slowly, he leaned in to her, and her smirk grew broader as the distance between them began to close, until their faces were only mere centimeters away from each other.

"First," Vic breathed, "sleep."

Then he climbed into bed, rolled over and away from her, and did as he had said.

Helena stared again, and then, when it had sunk in that she wasn't going to get her way, sighed dramatically and rolled over, her back facing his, her temper simmering below the surface.

She was _so_ not going to let him top when he woke up.


End file.
